Magyar Gold

The train rolled through the lush, green countryside on its way to Budapest. The trees and the hills and the towns and the people all went by, living their life as they always had. A sensitive young man sat with his face pressed against the glass counting down the minutes until the train arrived. It was a long journey from Vienna to Budapest, and an even longer journey all the way from England. He drummed his fingers on the arm rest in excitement of meeting his uncle. His mother and father had sent him out so that he could learn something of the world before he took over the family business. They told him it would be good for his business acumen.
 At last the train arrived in the central station of Budapest. Charles bolted out of the train as fast as he could, relieved that he could stretch his legs. There on the platform his uncle awaited him.
 “It’s so good to see you, uncle!”
 “That it is, likewise, Charles,” his uncle said, “and welcome to Budapest. Come, we must be on our way, I have a carriage waiting for us.”
 And so they traveled for a short while through the city, his uncle talking at length about the various things the city had to offer. They arrived at his uncle’s flat, which was in an old baroque building some ways outside of the city centre but still in a respectable area, or so Charles thought. The flat was quaint and cozy, not much more to ask of it; modestly decorated with whatever was popular within the Empire.
 “You must be tired after such a long trip, would you like some tea to help you relax? Olivea, prepare us some tea,” his uncle, not taking a moment to hear Charles, called out to someone named Olivea. His wife perhaps, Charles thought. He never did meet his aunt; though, he did overhear at a family gathering once that his uncle had married some ‘half-Steppe Mongloid’ as his father put it.
 “Uncle, where is auntie, is she here with you?” Charles asked.
 “Ah… sorry, my boy, but your aunt and I separated a few years ago,” his uncle said while rubbing his hands nervously, “it’s a pity you won’t get to meet her while you’re staying here,” he held out his hands apologetically.
 “I see, that is a shame uncle. Have you told mother about this?”
 “I’ve been meaning to write her but haven’t had the time, I’ve been quite busy lately as you’ll soon see. Here, let me show you to your room,” and with that his uncle whisked him away to one corner of the flat where his room lay.
 After Charles had put his luggage away he returned to the main parlour. Standing over the table was a girl serving up some tea. Charles had a hard time looking away from her. His uncle, mistaking Charles’ awkwardness for trepidation, moved to introduce the two; fulfilling his role as humble host.
 “Charles, this is your cousin, Olivea; Olivea, this is your cousin, Charles, my sister’s son.”
 “It is nice to meet you, Charles,” she said with a thick Hungarian accent.
 Charles’ throat felt dry all of a sudden. He cleared his throat to save himself from delaying his response any longer, “it’s nice to meet you as well, Olivea.”
 She gave him a kind a smile before returning to preparing the tea for the two of them. She wore a modestly long skirt that stood just above her shoes, it was a simple, grey-blue colour which matched her off-blue shirt and brown apron. Her eyes were also a shade of blue, deep blue; but the shape was unmistakeably of the Steppe, not quite as round as his and his uncle’s. Her hair was a dark brown–but not dark enough that it bordered black–and was done up and hidden inside her headpiece. Still, her bangs peeked through and kissed her brow. It was summer, and as such her freckles had become more pronounced from the sun’s harsh rays. His uncle said something to her in Hungarian, which he didn’t understand, and she promptly left the two of them alone.
 “She’s not really your cousin but it’s simpler to introduce her as such. She’s a distant relative of sorts; at least, would be considered as such if your aunt and I were still together. As a favour to your aunt, I agreed to employ Olivea here as a maid.”
 Charles wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his uncles confession, of sorts, so he drank some tea.
 “So how is the family back home? I keep meaning to write your mother but you know how these things are…,” his uncle said as his voice trailed off.
 “Things are quite well, uncle. Mother and father are both in good health and sister is in her second year of university at the moment; studying philosophy, Latin, and Greek. Father’s textile business seems to be doing well and he has high hopes that I’ll succeed him one day.”
 “Yes, yes, quite good. Well, I’ll do what I can to impart some of my knowledge unto you. You can join me tomorrow, I have a meeting with some Frenchmen down on St. Stevan’s street; and the day after with some Austrians. How is your French, by the way?”
 “It can hold its own, father did pay for the best tutor that he could find—a Frenchman from Paris, can you believe it? Though, I’m nowhere near as experienced as you, uncle.”
 “All in good time, my boy. I have some business to attend to soon, terribly sorry to cut our reunion short. Don’t wait up for me, but I’ll wake you on the morrow. You’re free to relax as you see fit. When you are done with your tea, leave it as is, Olivea will clean it if she’s still here; if not, then tomorrow. And should you find yourself hungry, there should be some leftover goulash in the kitchen that you’re free to help yourself to. Now, please excuse me as I must be off.”
 And with that he left. The flat was eerily quiet. Charles spent a few moments enjoying the rest of his tea before wandering around. He was hoping he could talk with Olivea as he had never met a Hungarian cousin before. He walked around the place for a few moments but couldn’t find his cousin anywhere. It had been a long journey so Charles decided to call it a day and turn in early.
 The next day his uncle woke him up early, explaining that they needed to get started soon on their trip to meet the Frenchmen. He had a light breakfast of porridge and milk, but that was enough to help him through the morning. His uncle, on the other hand, ate a pastry and chased it down with a shot of slivovitz. They left the flat soon after breakfast and made their way down to St. Stevan’s street. Although Charles was confident in his French, he did not have many opportunities to use it; that is why he was hoping this meeting with the Frenchmen would give him a good opportunity to practice. At half-past ten they arrived at a smoker’s lounge where the Frenchman were waiting for them, shrouded in air of cigar smoke. For the next hour, Charles was only able to understand around 80% of what they were discussing. He had a general idea of the topic, investing in an oil field, but missed out on the more minor details. He was glad that the meeting was coming to an end because his head was dizzy from all the smoke.
 “Well, my boy, what did you think of that?” his uncle said with a hint of pride in his voice.
 “I think I only understood about 80% of what you talked about,” he said truthfully.
 “Don’t worry about it, boy, you’ll pick it up by the end of your trip. There is a lot of business lingo that I don’t expect you to be familiar with, but trust me when I say that this investment in an oil company will return dividends worth a fortune.”
 For the rest of the day, Charles’ uncle showed him around the city and introduced him to many of his business acquaintances and associates. Charles secretly hoped that by the time they returned to the flat Olivea would be there; but sadly, she was not.
 The next morning was another early start only this time his uncle had some unexpected news for him.
 “Sorry to spring this on you, but I need you to go in my stead to meet the Austrians today. Something has come up and I’m urgently needed elsewhere. I’ve written a few notes for you,” he hurriedly pushed a pile of papers onto Charles. “For the most part, all you need to do is present the notes to the Austrians and have them sign the document that I’ve sealed in the envelope at the bottom. Now, in case they prove difficult and won’t sign the document, take this,” he handed Charles a small pouch that made an unmistakable jingling sound as it moved. “Don’t hold it against them, this isn’t like back home, they didn’t invent the game, only inherited it. I’m sure your father would understand.”
 “Uncle, I don’t think I’m ready for this. This all seems a bit much. And a bribe!? What if I get caught?”
 “Don’t worry about it, my boy. It’s not a bribe, it’s a business expense. This is all part of learning to do business. You’ll get the knack of it soon enough. Now, review those notes and I’ll arrange a carriage for you in the meantime.”
 Charles had a hard time concentrating on the notes, his mind swimming with doubts, but too unsure of the situation to be able to mount an effective rebuke of his uncle’s ways. He wasn’t sure where to begin with his line of questioning. And before he could gather his thoughts he was already on his way to the meeting in the carriage. He told himself that he had to do this, to put on a good face on behalf of his uncle. A MacDonald never shirks his duty and always rises to the occasion—at least, that is what he liked to tell himself. As the carriage rolled along the street he felt his stomach twist around itself as his porridge walked to the gallows. Perhaps he couldn’t do this after all.